


Seven Years, Seven Pines

by deathmallow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, F/M, colonial period, fairy tale challenge, french and indian wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmallow/pseuds/deathmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sometimes Haymitch would think of the night he’d sold his soul to Coriolanus Snow, and think just how far he had fallen.  Seven years of serving the man felt like serving the devil himself.</i> </p><p>Historical AU (1760s America), a mildly Hayhanna interpretation of the Grimm Brothers' fairy tale <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bearskin_(German_fairy_tale)">Bearskin</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Years, Seven Pines

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for implied violence and murder, and an instance of forced marriage.

_The Colony of New York, 1763_  
Long years Haymitch Abernathy had been gone in the war, taking his passage here to America as part of the army in order to fight the French. A Scotsman born, he still chafed at the English voices, the English yoke on his shoulders, but a Scotsman had little recourse these days. His da had been a part of the stand at Culloden near twenty years past now, when the Abernathys had rallied to the call of the Leslies to battle, and his father was buried there on the battlefield still.

Growing up poor as it was, one of only two surviving boys and a ma struggling to feed even those hungry mouths, he’d seen the way of it. It was the army or take passage to America as an indentured servant and between the tender mercies of twenty years of an unknown master and a shorter term in the military, the choice was easy enough. Besides, he could send his pay home as a soldier, whereas an indentured man was no more than a slave. He spent a little too much on the drink sometimes, aye, but he avoided the dice and the whores, and a man was entitled to one small pleasure in a rough lot in life, wasn’t he? He’d joined the army at sixteen, before the war, and now he proudly wore sergeant’s stripes. He’d made enough in all those years to bring his ma and Ash over, started to put enough by that perhaps in a few years he and Briar might finally marry. He had his eye on a homestead in the uplands of North Carolina near where his ma lived, where others from back home had settled. It would feel like home, but without the despair that pervaded Scotland these days.

The war was done and over and he was at the camp near New York City ready to muster out when they finally got the mail held for them while they were fighting French fuckers and Indians out in the wilderness. Haymitch held a good half-dozen letters in his hands, eagerly tearing into them, starved for news of home.

Then he was clutching the letter, pacing fretfully beyond the edge of camp so that nobody would see his agitation, trying to keep the low sound in his throat from bursting forth into a cry of pain and loss. _It pains me to inform you that during your service in the Defense of our Colonies, your regarded Mother and your Intended, Briar Wainwright, were killed in a Fire at their cabin this 6 of August. My deepest sympathies. Yrs, Jarron Undersee_

They had been dead near a year already and he’d not known it. Where had he been the previous August? What Godforsaken wilderness had he been fighting to hold while they were dying?

“Bad news from home, is it?” came a soft voice, approaching him from the darkness. He looked and saw a man wearing a green coat of the rangers, and a badge of a white rose.

“Colonel Snow,” he said, identifying the man immediately. His reputation preceded him; it was often said Snow’s rangers had saved the day, particularly in the fierce fighting up at Ticonderoga. “Aye, well,” he said, looking at the letter, the paper crumpled now. He would read the last letters from them later. He couldn’t bear it now. “Dead and gone, buried too these months, and no point in my wailing, is there?” He forced the gruff, sharp edge he’d had to take on into his voice—the military was no place for the weak, meek, or shy.

“So you’ve got no place to go home to, Sergeant?”

“Well, now there’s a brilliant observation.” No home and no trade but war, for that matter, so what would he do with himself now? It was only after a moment he realized he’d forgotten himself, drowning in the sorrow as he was. “Sir,” he added hastily, hoping it wasn’t too late to temper the insolence somewhat.

Snow just chuckled dryly, that low, polite, English chuckle that he hated. “There’s plenty of work to be had out there, Sergeant—“

“Abernathy. Haymitch Abernathy.” He’d long since got used to the butchery an English tongue usually made of “Hamish”. Better to not protest the thing and have them look at him wondering if he was a damn traitor Scot. The Scots accent already made him suspicious enough.

“Sergeant Abernathy. We’ve poked a damn hornet’s nest with this war and now the savages and the settlers and everyone else is up in a stir, particularly out along the frontier. I’ve got permission for a detached unit. You’re a terror with a knife in close-quarters combat, so I hear, and a decent hand with your firearm.” Haymitch was silent. He didn’t like to think much about the feel of hot blood on his hands, the sound a dying man made as the knife slid home. “We could use a long-term man like you as part of our ranks. And at much higher than the regular army pay as this would be considered special service.”

He thought about it a moment. With nowhere to go, nobody to go home to, the only thing that seemed to matter was being of use so that he wouldn’t go mad with the loss. The higher pay didn’t much matter to him. “The terms of signing on anew?” he said cautiously.

Snow gave a diffident shrug. His hair and beard gleamed silver in the moonlight, the light winking off the buttons of his coat. “For seven years you wear my colors and you obey my orders, Abernathy. After that, if you’ve survived with your scalp intact, you’re a free man, and a wealthy one.”

“So be it,” he said, nodding, crumpling the rest of the letter and letting it drop to the ground. A waste of precious paper, but he would never want to read those words again.

The next morning he signed off from the regulars, signed the articles for Snow’s Rangers, and headed west with them. Among them there was Finnick Odair, as redheaded an Irishman as he’d ever seen, handsome blond Johnny Gloss, and too a dark-skinned man from the Indies identified to him as Snow’s new body servant, who answered only to the name “Chaff”. All of them wore the white rose badge on their green jackets, and Snow had added the extra flash of a black bearskin slung about their shoulders, almost like a heavy, furry plaid. Had he been able to ditch the damn thing he would have, given it was sweltering July heat and it only grew worse. When in the third day Corporal Gloss finally shrugged off his bearskin and turned to fasten it on his saddlepack, Snow coolly pulled the entire business over from the trail to tie him to a birch. As sergeant, normally it fell to Haymitch to do the flogging, but Snow said with a laugh, “Let the black lad do it, he’s endured it enough that he’s got the touch with a whip.”

Chaff gave the ten lashes with no expression at all, but Haymitch could see the fire and helpless fury in his eyes.

Johnny Gloss fell from his horse the next day, feverish as anything. Snow only shrugged when Haymitch asked him for a surgeon’s kit to try to treat the festering wounds. “Corporal Gloss chose his fate by disregarding the uniform he swore to wear and respect,” he said. “Let fate now choose whether he lives or dies.”

Fate, as it happened, let Gloss live. That and tying the man to his horse each day so he wouldn’t fall again, and the rest of them secretly slipping him water and bits of bread where they might, and trying to clean the wounds. Haymitch thought he’d never forget the muffled shrieks of agony Gloss made biting on a stick as he, Chaff, and Finnick tried to cut deep enough to root out the corruption and then seal the wounds with fire. 

Finnick came up alongside him two weeks on the trail. “Do you think we made a mistake?” he said, so soft Haymitch barely heard him, nodding to the straight-backed figure of Colonel Snow on his white horse leading the way.

“Oh, no question of that,” Haymitch answered. “But we’re in the thing now and no escape.” He said it matter-of-factly. Deserters would be shot, and he’d quickly found that Snow had his loyal men in the company—Romulus Thread for one—who would happily keep an eye on the new recruits and make sure they didn’t try to escape. It took only three shootings for the rest of them to get the point: they were Snow’s for seven years, and he would stop at nothing if any of them tried to escape. He cheerfully informed them that if one man escaped and wasn’t recaptured, the entire unit would be put to death for desertion and treason. It said something that nobody doubted he would do it. They also noticed Snow kept his tent well-guarded at night, so it wasn’t even like they could kill the man and be free that way—it would mean death for murdering a superior officer, but had they a good chance, it might well have been worth it. But no chance arose and so they looked after each other as best they could. It was all they had: this brotherhood forged in common misery. He’d not wanted to make himself a bondsman all those years ago but he found himself little better than a slave now. 

Whatever had kept Snow in check during the war, perhaps being answerable to higher command, disappeared now. He ran the unit like his own private kingdom, and in the wilderness, far from the eyes of the army, he turned them loose on settlers with indifference, claiming he was only “keeping order”. What order that was, Haymitch wasn’t sure, but after being lashed twice, he learned to keep his mouth shut. Snow clearly liked his sergeants as obedient and silent as possible: only one man gave any orders. He’d heard Snow dictating reports back to the higher-ups explaining that the western frontier was a Godless place full of savages both white and Indian, and constant insurrection threatening the safety of the trade routes. 

They didn’t often go after the Indians. Snow was no fool. To destroy one village would be to invite the whole tribe to come down upon them for vengeance.

But they became good at burning places. It fulfilled Snow’s taste for sending a message, and it was far preferable to killing everyone—though Haymitch didn’t doubt that burning their homes and their winter stores wouldn’t kill many of the people anyway. Still, at least it was a fighting chance. Sitting on his horse and smelling the acrid scent of another village burning behind them and imagining another burned cabin in the Carolinas, sometimes Haymitch would think of the night he’d sold his soul to Coriolanus Snow, and think just how far he had fallen. Seven years of serving the man felt like serving the devil himself. 

Times came that the “Bearskins”, as they became known, knew what to expect upon reaching each new place. They villagers would welcome them, but out of terror rather than warmth. To refuse them hospitality, lodging and food and drink, would be inviting their own destruction. Haymitch took to two ways of coping. First, drinking rather too much, though not so much he was drunk enough to invite Snow’s wrath. Second, vastly overpaying for what things he did buy at taverns and the like. Snow had been good as his word—the pay was near triple his regular wages, and he’d no use of any of the money most of the time. If Snow took a notion to make an example of the place the gold would go a long way to helping them rebuild, Haymitch figured, and if Snow didn’t, it at least eased his conscience a bit to know he’d left them something for the scare they’d taken by hosting Colonel Snow and his Bearskins. That and a whispered, “I’m sorry,” was the best that he could do. 

It was in the fourth year of his “service” that they were in Pennsylvania. The innkeeper at a small village called Seven Pines kept apologizing for the poor fare he put before them that night. “The supplies from the east have been slow to arrive,” he stammered. Haymitch looked at him, a solid, plain, honest man made helpless, and turned to take another drink from his mug of ale. By the look of the place, they'd been starving slowly for quite a while. He managed to not think of the village he'd been born in, and that same sense of slow-descending hopelessness that came after Culloden.

A cry came from the corner where Major Cray had gotten to his favorite hobby: chasing the women. Maybe he wasn’t as bloodthirsty as Thread, but all the men were disgusted with Cray and how he took advantage of some poor woman any chance he got, leaving her with some gold for the “trouble”. The lasses could hardly refuse him. The grim joke had been that the frontier from north to south was probably seeded with Cray’s bastards by this point, usually followed by a few mutters about wishing they could just cut off his balls. Unfortunately he was one of Snow’s favorites.

The “woman” this time was barely more than a girl, auburn haired and obviously frightened. “I’m sorry, sir, but…but…” She babbled, as Cray still kept hold of her wrist. Haymitch took another long swallow of ale and thought pleasant thoughts of cutting that hand of Cray’s off at the wrist, imagined doing murder. His dreams, ever since he’d gone into the war, had been bloody anyway. 

“What’s this commotion?” Snow demanded crisply.

Haymitch gave the innkeep credit for defending what appeared to be his child. “Your man is treating my daughter like a…” _Whore_ , they all probably finished the thought in their heads. “I would ask that you make him stop.” That a man would have to ask, rather than demand, was sickening enough. But at least he had the guts to speak up. 

“I shouldn’t like my men to treat gentle young ladies dishonorably,” Snow said, and that cold, crafty tone was entering his voice that Haymitch didn’t like. “But clearly Major Cray finds your little…what’s her name?”

“Doesn’t matter what her name is,” came another female’s voice, and now another woman was standing in front of the younger, auburn-haired one. Defiant brown eyes stared at Snow, and her brown hair was caught back in an untidy queue. “If he wants a woman, he ought to try a _woman_ , not a girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Hanna,” Heike murmured behind her, voice obviously frightened.

“ _Halt den Mund_ ,” Johanna told her little sister between gritted teeth, using the German they had learned from their _Mutti_. These were British soldiers here, Snow’s bastard Bearskins, she wouldn’t doubt they knew a lick of German besides maybe “More beer” and “Kill them all”. Not looking at Heike, she continued, “ _Lass mich_.”

Staring at Colonel Snow himself and willing herself to not look away, she couldn’t even look at that pig that had been fondling Heike and imagine letting him paw her too. He’d get an axe in his skull before he could ever get her skirts up—she swore that with grim determination. 

“You might have your hands full with this one, Cray,” Snow said with amusement, eyeing her. “Besides, you’ve had more than your fill of women lately, haven’t you?”

“She’s a likely looking one, sir,” the old, fat man said, staring where her stays pushed her breasts up above the edge of her bodice, and where she’d left off her kerchief from working in the heat of the kitchen near the hearth.

“Don’t get greedy,” Snow chided him, like a father chastising a whining boy demanding more sweets. “Perhaps one of the other lads would appreciate some company for the night?” He turned and eyed the men he had brought in with him. All of them wore that hated green jacket and bearskin. All of them were ragged and filthy, and they smelled like they hadn’t bathed in a month, more animals than men. That was in keeping with their reputation. “Abernathy, actually, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you with a woman. Not a nancy, are you?”

“No, sir,” came the stiff reply from one of them. His unruly, curly black hair and the thick beard he probably hadn’t shaved in months made him look as wild as the bearskin across his shoulder.

“Oh, good. Take the wench tonight with my compliments, then,” Snow said dismissively. “You’ll be suitably compensated for her, of course,” he told Johanna’s father, who was staring at Snow with a look of absolute disbelief. “Assuming she’s still a maid?” 

It was a lucky thing there was nothing sharp she could throw at the man right now because she would have done it. To be handed over as a whore to some man, casually as passing a loaf of bread, infuriated her. Maybe no man in the village had come courting, scared off by her sharp tongue perhaps, but that was no cause to turn her into some soldier’s slut on a whim.

To her surprise, Abernathy spoke up. His voice was gruff, almost rusty with disuse, and thick with an accent she didn’t know. “Sir, her father’s correct. I can hardly…dishonor her like that.”

Snow heaved a sigh. “These Highlanders and their damned touchy honor. Then by all means, _marry_ the wench if it makes you feel better, Sergeant, but don’t be a poor sport and refuse a gift.”

Twenty minutes later, still a little in shock, she found herself being married to Sergeant Abernathy. “It’s a handfast, see, only for a year and a day,” he muttered, rough fingers clutching hers a little too hard, “as there’s no minister here to make the thing bound and legal.” His eyes met hers, silver-grey in his dirty, bearded face and she thought she saw a sarcastic smile as he said, “No justice here either.” She appreciated both senses of that word and wondered if that was how he’d meant it. 

Their marriage would be a lot shorter than a year and a day, she promised herself that. “Do us both a favor and take a bath before you bother coming upstairs,” she told him with a snort, turning on her heel and leaving her supposed husband standing there with his fellows snickering at him. She knew just the right axe to slip beneath the pillow and she intended to have it there when he came to her bed.

An hour later there was a polite rap on the door of the room she and Heike had shared since they were little. Heike had been chased off for the evening, of course, since she was supposed to be busy bedding her new husband. “Come in,” she called, rolling her eyes.

He came in carrying a tray with two cups on it. Looking at him, she saw he’d actually listened—his hair still looked a bit damp from the bath, and he’d shaved. He was wearing clean breeches and a shirt. Without the hated jacket and bearskin, he looked simple, almost ordinary, a man rather than a devil or a ghoul. Without the scruff and dirt, he also looked younger than she’d originally thought, maybe not too far past thirty, though she thought there were a few silver threads in that black hair. “Your father gave me some wine,” he said, lifting the tray a bit. A wry smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Should I be worrying about poison in mine?”

“Oh, we wouldn’t ever do that to a fine, upstanding soldier of King George,” she informed him sweetly. Though she actually enjoyed the touch of sarcasm from him there, she would admit.

He laughed caustically. “That assumes there’s such a thing in this room, doesn’t it? Don’t try to flatter me, lass. You’re no good at it.” A little heavily, almost unsteady, he sat down on the opposite side of the bed from her. Her fingers went under the pillow and gripped the handle of the hatchet. She chopped enough kindling each day. She knew just how easily it would cleave his skull. He looked over his shoulder at her. “I don’t even know your name. Your surname, that’s Mason, I got that from the inn sign, but your Christian name?”

“I didn’t give it.” She didn’t know his name either, nor did she care. Where she found the boldness, she didn’t know, given that she knew this man could lead to her death and that of everyone around her. Maybe it was his hesitation. Smelling the ale fumes on his breath, she realized he’d been drinking a good bit downstairs before coming up. For celebration or courage, she wondered suddenly.

~~~~~~~~~~

He should have kept his mouth shut, but it had been gone a little too far. He might have fallen far, but he was no Cray. Of course it had entertained Snow to play his little games of power with them, denying Cray what he wanted and instead handing it to Haymitch who wanted none of it. Once again, their commander—their _master_ —was reinforcing the lesson of who held all the power, playing them off each other to boot.

So now he had a wife he’d never wanted and one who obviously would snap at his hand like a wild wolf given half the chance. Refusing to even give him her name just reinforced how twisted this whole thing was. _Ah, Briar,_ he thought with a moment of wrenching despair, imagining the wedding night he would have had with a woman he’d loved more than life itself, rather than this mockery with a stranger who probably would sooner see him dead than in her bed. “It was a brave thing you did,” he volunteered.

She smiled sweetly, though her eyes were hard, and said something to him in German. He had only a few words of it from serving alongside some Germans, but he was pretty sure the words _shit_ and _dead_ were in there.

He smiled right back and said to her in Gaelic, “And let me guess, if I look under that pillow, have you got a dirk all ready for killing me?” The only question would be whether she’d planned on enduring him bedding her before she did it. He wouldn’t put good odds on it.

With on quick move he’d pinned her arm and found the hatchet there. Tossing it aside, he let her go and said with a snort, “Odd notion I’ve got, but I’d rather not have blood on the sheets tonight.” Stupid woman, not even thinking about how if he was found dead in this bed, it would kill the sister she'd tried to save and probably the entire village besides. The few moments of vengeance would mean she brought harm down on everyone else.

She was practically hissing in rage at being disarmed, and she dove for the hatchet. Brandishing it again, she stood there, nightdress falling off one shoulder, brown hair tumbling down in loose waves, eyes fierce as she glowered at him. He had the thought she was magnificent, right before he hoped he could talk his way out of this. “Didn’t it get through your skull, sweetheart? No blood on the sheets tonight. I won’t bed you.”

She stared at him, eyes narrowing. “And why should I believe the word of a _Gottverdammt_ Bearskin on anything?”

“Because this is one command from my shit-arse of a colonel I can actually apparently disobey, since he’s not standing over me watching me carry it out.” He had the thought he ought to treat her gently, that all the time in the army had just turned him into a rough bastard, but obviously she could take it and then give it right back. “Do you actually think we serve for the love of him?”

“Can’t say I’ve bothered to study the habits of a bunch of savages claiming to be men. If he’s holding you captive, then you kill him and have done with it,” she said bluntly. 

“If it was just that easy, we’d have done it years ago. The last man that tried it was flogged to death.” He saw her flinch and added ruthlessly, “Over three days. And all the army seemingly cares about is that there’s no trouble out here.”

“English,” she said bitterly. “Not content until you squeeze the last drop—“

“I’m not English,” he corrected her fiercely. 

“You wear an English uniform,” she answered with raised eyebrows. She pronounced it more like _Englisch_ , he noticed. “You serve an English officer. So if you’re not English, you’re an English bootlicker. Have you always been one or did it take time to give up your freedom?”

She had no desire to listen to him try to explain what it had been like to be starving and oppressed and terrified, without options, as a child, and that bowing his head in submission to the very king that had killed his father and destroyed his country had been the only option. Nor would she know how it still galled him sometimes, knowing that had been only the first step on a long dark road to hell. “I’m a man who never really had choices,” he said bitterly. “This least of all. No worries, sweetheart. I’ll be gone in the morning, and in a year and a day you’re free of me entirely.” 

He nodded to the axe. “You can put that away. Get some sleep. I’ll take the floor.” He could tell that neither of them slept at all that night. 

In the morning he headed downstairs to the immediate ribbing of Cray, wanting details. “I’m not discussing my wife with you,” he said, feigning offense. Spying a mug of ale, he grabbed it and just started drinking; might as well make an early start of it since the day wasn’t going to get any better. Finnick pushed his mug towards Haymitch as well; good man.

Before he left, when Gloss pulled him aside and muttered he’d better quit drinking before he was too soused to sit his horse, he handed over his remaining pay to the woman he’d married. “A dowry for you, your sister, something for the village, whatever. Just…put it to use. Stay alive.”

She would find the ring in the money pouch soon enough. He’d put it in there deliberately rather than handing it over with ceremony, because he wanted it treated no differently from the coin. That ring was only another bit of gold, now useless to him. He might as well give it to this wife of his for what use she could make of it because the woman he’d bought it for was long buried, as was the man he’d been then. 

Without looking back, he turned his horse and followed the rest of them in a cloud of dust. He wouldn’t return. Although thoughts of her challenging him were stuck in his head, as was her open defiance, so alien to him. He’d had to learn subtle, clever ways of getting around things, because he’d never had the luxury of being able to make a direct stand on anything, knowing he’d only court disaster by it. But she hadn’t cared. The idea of that raw courage, based on that sense of fierce and proud liberty he’d never quite known, was both thrilling and terrifying.

~~~~~~~~~~

Seven Pines finally prospered thanks to the fat pouch of money her almost-husband left Johanna. In time, as she made deliveries of her family’s furniture and beer and ale to other villages, she’d heard that throughout the region, certain members of the dread Bearskins had been in the habit before of dropping excessive amounts of gold. Nobody rebuilt too quickly, not wanting to draw attention from Snow again, but it was apparently enough that nobody suffered and starved.

A year and a day passed and the sergeant didn’t return. She wasn’t sure whether or not she’d thought he might. Probably not, she acknowledged. But she felt no freer on that day than any other, even though she had expected she would. Now and again she thought about him, the odd conflict of a man who apparently felt he was as much a slave as anyone in chains. But from how he'd spoken, she realized one thing: defiance wasn't always wise. Cracking his skull open would have gotten everyone punished, and that would be her selfishness hurting everyone. Sometimes waiting patiently yielded the best results. It wasn't an easy lesson, but if that fool man could bide his time when it came to Snow, she could learn to look for her opportunities where they might come.

Three years had passed when he finally came back. The bearskin and green jacket were long gone; instead he rode in wearing buckskin trousers and a wool hunting shirt, like any woodsman. It was only because she’d seen his face without that beard that she recognized him, or thought she did. When she saw his eyes she was sure of it. “So here you are, back again,” she said, as he walked into the inn.

He gave her a little half-smirk. “And I’m so pleased you’ve got a fond memory of me after these years.”

She gave a snort of amusement. “A half-dozen mugs of ale for you to begin?”

“Just water, I've given up the drink,” he said, shaking his head. She stared at him. Apparently he’d gotten even odder in his time away. “Your father and sister?” he inquired politely.

“Heike married two years ago. She and her husband actually run the inn now. Thanks for the dowry, mm? My father…” Her throat tightened a little. Pneumonia had taken him this last winter.

He nodded in acknowledgement. “Condolences.” He gave a tight half-shrug and said, “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Really?”

“So let’s put it,” he told her dryly, “I wanted to make certain I hadn’t somehow ruined your life. Have you married?”

“No. And it’s not because they consider me damaged goods either by being associated with you. Don’t get a high opinion of your capabilities there,” she told him. “And you? Still running around as one of Snow’s dogs?”

He smiled and raised a dark eyebrow. A thin scar now bisected it, she noticed. “Oh, no. He died nearly three years ago.”

“Tragic.” She leaned in closer, pitched her voice lower. “Who gets the credit?” she asked with interest.

“We were busy planning a mutiny, mind. But a band of Seneca changed our plans. A lot of us were killed, Colonel Snow among them. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately,” she echoed sarcastically. She didn’t ask right then but she wondered if some of Snow’s own men had taken advantage of the chaos to make sure their leader was among the casualties. She couldn’t be sorry for it, though. That explained a lot about why Snow’s men hadn’t been heard from in years and why the entire region was peaceful again. “And then?”

“Oh, a few of us survived and were captured. It’s a long story of trials and tribulations and the like, but most of us ended up proving enough mettle we ended up adopted into the tribe. My friend Finnick’s actually married to a girl there. Long tongue-twisting name,” he rattled off a polysyllabic thing that she could barely wrap her head around, “but he calls her ‘Annie’. Two children already. Adorable little things.”

“And you? Got a wife back in that lovely little Seneca village?” she joked flippantly. She wondered if he slept on bearskins there. 

“No.” He shook his head, looking away. For a moment she had the sense of that distance between him and the world, that overpowering loneliness in him that had been there the night he’d married her.

She left him to his dinner, though she went to her room and retrieved the ring. She hadn’t sold it yet. She’d offered it to Heike for her own wedding, but her sister had gently refused it; Jay’s mother’s ring had done better for her than some stranger’s. Going back downstairs, she gently set it down in front of him. “Here. This is yours.” She didn’t want it sitting there in her nightstand making her think now and again about the man who’d left it with her, and just why he had that ring.

He shook his head, reaching for another hunk of bread. “I don’t want it back. Keep it.” She thought about how she could try to pester him into it, but he’d been the one man she couldn’t quite intimidate. And it seemed away from Snow, he’d gained a quiet confidence—whereas that one night the awkwardness and guilt were obvious. He acted like a free man now, she realized. But there was a difference between chains and debts of obligation; the idiot had felt honor-bound to come make certain she was all right. She was touched and amused and unsettled by that all at once.

Both of them stared at the ring. Finally she blurted, “My name is Johanna.” She made sure to pronounce it properly, rather than the impatient "Joanna" English tongues made of it.

Silver-grey eyes met hers. He smiled, ever so slightly. “Hamish.”

**Author's Note:**

> All historical inaccuracies are my own fault. Not my usual historical period and (briefly) researched and written in something like five hours. :/


End file.
